Down The Stairs He Walks  Towards What He Lusts For  The Grim Art on The Wall  Makes Him Want More    A Chamber Full of Hate  Carpets Made of Human Limbs  He Enjoys The Air He Breathes  He Does No Longer Grief    Into The Halls of Pain  Where Death Is The Only Art  Welcome To Those  With Their Torture Hearts    Fascinated By Brutal Deaths  He Continues His Search Alone  In The Eternal Hails of Torture  He Walks Until The Gate Is Open    He Does Not Want To Turn Back  He Has Found His Passion  While The Flowers Rot At Winter  His Mind Grows Sicker And Sicker    All The Gates of Which He Passed  Is Now Sealed In Blood  I Hope He's Found His World of Dreams  I Enjoy The Torture Art    Down The Stairs He Walks  Towards What He Lusts For  The Grim Art on The Wall  Makes Him Want More    A Chamber Full of Hate  Carpets Made of Human Limbs  He Enjoys The Air He Breathes  He Does No Longer Grief    Fascinated By Brutal Deaths  He Continues His Search Alone  In The Eternal Hails of Torture  He Walks Until The Gate Is Open    He Does Not Want To Turn Back  He Has Found His Passion  While The Flowers Rot At Winter  His Mind Grows Sicker And Sicker